


A White and Red Winter

by smallashes



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Imperial Russia, F/M, Imperial Russia, Red Room
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2018025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallashes/pseuds/smallashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the growing threat of communism, Grand Duke Sergei Aleksandrovich seeks out a way to deal with the radicals - the Tsar is to be protected at all costs from the newly dangerous revolutionaries. So when Vasily Karpov and his young protégé Aleksandr Lukin came across an amnesiac American in the snow along the Ural Mountains, they were immediately set with a task: make him useful to the Tsar.</p><p>Meanwhile, the Grand Duke hides an adoptive secret - a little girl he found named Natalia Alianovna has grown to be something deadly. And though her training is incomplete, Sergei Aleksandrovich doesn't doubt her usefulness. Her first targets are to be the intelligentsia who dared speak against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowfall

“Do you think he is well, Vasily Gravilovich?”

“Check his vitals. If he is breathing, perhaps we can salvage him.” The voices were distant, somewhere far away but still very close. Two men, one much younger than the other. He couldn’t make much out, his face planted in the ground, his body unable to move. And his head hurt. God, his head hurt…

His vision was blurry, the images of white snow and the dark figures melding together in a shaky mosaic. The bright sunlight only added to the pain in his head, his arm numbing at his side. The voices continued on, his brain barely focusing enough to translate.

“He is an American,” said the younger man, rustling through his coat. “His bag and his papers are all in English.”

“What is an American doing in the Urals?”

He tried to move his arm and then his leg, but nothing moved. His body had turned to lead in the snow.

“I don’t know. But he is breathing. Shall we take him?”

“I think that would be a good idea. Perhaps he may be of use. If at all, he can tell us what he is doing all the way up here.”

Brief images of climbing flashed in his mind; rocks high above, his friend reaching down to catch him. A quick feeling of fear. Just brief images before he blacked out completely in the hands of the two Russian officials carrying him back to their campsite and placing him on a wooden cart. His left arm bleeding heavily through his coat. He regained consciousness for a moment, his mouth cooperating enough for a single word – _Steve._

\--  
The Grand Duke overlooked Moscow from his balcony, watching the Jews of the city pack up and leave. This was the last wave of their expulsion, and he eagerly awaited a Jewish-free Moscow. It was his first order when he settled there, only four weeks after he became Governor General of Moscow. They left in rags and thin jackets, though the weather was cold enough to warrant Sergei a proper fur coat. He could see his breath forming clouds around him. It was only a matter of time before Moscow was a proper Russian city once again.

“This weather is not letting up,” said a voice behind him. “The cold continues to ravage us. Sergei Aleksandrovich, don’t you think we should give them more time?”

“They are almost all out of the city, Ivan,” he replied, leaning against the railing. “Is there anything else you came here to talk to me about?”

The police commissioner hesitated, shaking his head. “Just to hand you the reports of young Natalia. She has been doing well in our care, though I think she has been eager to do something beyond the ballet studio.” Ivan flipped the small file over in his hands before placing it on the Grand Duke’s desk. “My suggestion, Sergei Aleksandrovich, once you have finished reading her files is to send her to the Red Room. I think she is ready.”

“I shall decide when I’m done,” he said, nodding. “Is everything prepared there?”

“Yes… I believe it is.”

This was good. The Red Room was years in the makings, a secret building just outside of Moscow. It was his father’s idea to build it, as a means of controlling the people, but it was the Grand Duke who oversaw its creation. After Aleksandr’s defeat at the Crimea, and several assassination attempts, he wanted something to keep the Tsar safe at all costs.  
Sergei dismissed the commissioner with a wave of his hand, taking a seat at his desk. The man was almost out the door before he stopped and turned on his heel. “Wait,” he said. “Karpov came back from the Urals last night. He and Lukin brought back with them a man.”

“And why is this of importance?” asked the Grand Duke, looking up to face him.

“He is an American, though he seems to be able to speak multiple languages, including Russian. He struggled when he woke up after we nursed him to health. Three of my men are critically injured.”

“What of him?” He sounded like a soldier, perhaps one who fought recently in America. But an American who spoke Russian was rare.

“He’s lost his memory, Sergei Aleksandrovich. He doesn’t remember who he is or where he is from.” Ivan closed his jacket at the incoming wind, closing himself in whether as protection against the cold or against the Grand Duke. “Karpov suggested we bring him to the Red Room. Perhaps he may be of use to us.”

“Do we know his name? What did his papers say?”

“Sergeant James Barnes of the United States military,” replied Ivan. “But he doesn’t know that. Or at least, he doesn’t seem to remember.”

Sergei nodded, thanking the commissioner. “I will see him myself and speak with Karpov. I may have an inkling of an idea of what to do with him.”

Ivan Petrovich bowed before leaving the room, the guards closing the door behind him.

It was still morning, early enough for much to get done in the rest of the day. Sergei opened the file from the start, the picture of a small, red-headed girl staring back at him. It was taken only a few hours after she was found, and it took only days after that to convince Ivan to take her in as a daughter. She had since been enrolled in ballet, and doing a few other things on the side. This was, of course, not done without Ivan’s permission, but the commissioner was more than willing to do anything the Grand Duke asked him to. After all, who turned down the son of the Tsar?

He flipped to the more recent pages, reports outlining her progress with Ivan. She was strong, it seemed, though not fully aware of what her training was. It was a good time to bring her to the Red Room. And with this new American, perhaps they will have the chance to produce two proper operatives rather than the tests that were previously thrown out. Sergei sighed, closing the file and sliding it to the corner of his desk. He hoped that Alexi Shostakov would pull through, rather than be the temperamental officer he was. Perhaps with the American he will have an officer more willing to carry out his orders for the country and the Tsar. But he would need convincing.

\--

Vasily Karpov stared at the room where the American was held. The door was closed and the window was too dirty to see through, but he knew he was there. Silently waiting behind the door, handcuffed to a pipe attached to the wall. The handcuffs were his idea, and they were to protect anyone who came in to see the American. He had already put three police officers in the hospital and Karpov didn’t want any more injured. Still, he was intrigued by the man; he seemed to be a well-educated soldier from America, a rarity if he ever saw one. And what was he doing in the Urals?

Aleksandr’s voice tore him from his thoughts. “Do you think the stories of the British soldiers are true? The undefeatable ones from the Crimea – they sound too much like myth to me.”

“My father saw them for himself,” muttered Karpov, fixing his jacket sleeve. “Well, he saw one. He told me that they would take a bullet and continue to run for miles.”

“I trust your father, then,” replied Aleksandr. “Perhaps they were born that way. I cannot imagine the British experimenting on men to accomplish such a thing.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. They are hungry for innovation, especially in warfare. Them and the Americans.” He caught one last glance at the room where the American was held. 

“My father saw a lot of things in that war that sounded like gifts given from God Himself. Still, we lost many men in that war, and we lost the war entirely. Perhaps God doesn’t favour Russia.”

“I pray that isn’t the truth. God blesses us all, so long as we are one of his followers.”

The door opened with a clang, and with it a burst of wind as the Governor General of Moscow walked in, the cold of January blowing into the building. Both Karpov and Aleksandr rose to their feet, bowing slightly as he walked past.

“Is this the American?” he asked, peering through the dirty window.

“He is, sir,” said Karpov as he hurried to stand next to him. He fingered the key in his pocket. “Ivan Petrovich told me that we are still lacking candidates for the Red Room and he seems to me that we have a perfect opportunity. The man does not remember who he is, though you may ask him if you so wish it.”

“Please,” said the Grand Duke, stepping aside. “I would like to interview him. Ivan told me that he lost his memory.”

“He has, yes.” Karpov slid the key in, turning the handle once it clicked. “Though his muscle memory seems to have remained. It took five officers to detain him once he regained consciousness, three of whom are currently in hospital for treatment. He is not a man to be taken lightly, even without his memory.”

“I see… Thank you, Vasily Gavrilovich.”

Karpov watched nervously as the Grand Duke stepped inside. It was well-lit, with a desk and chair, both moved to the far wall where the American was chained. He looked over Sergei Aleksandrovich, remaining quiet as he walked around him. He looked like a specimen to be examined, physically fit but dressed in the flimsy rags of criminals. His old clothes were destroyed, and those were the last they had lying around. The thin shirt and coat of a peddler, stained and dirtied with age. His trousers were a tad too large, wrapped tightly around his waist. But the most prominent feature was his left arm: the sleeves had been rolled up and a large bandage was wound around the wound on his shoulder. It amazed Karpov that he did so much damage while injured so badly.

“Are you coming to take me somewhere warmer?” The American spoke with an accent, though that wasn’t surprising. He didn’t take his eyes off the ground, muttering his words as they came out.

“If that’s what you would like, I suppose we could arrange that.” Sergei Aleksandrovich turned to Karpov, taking his arm and walking him away a few steps. “Bring him to the Red Room. I would like to see him in action before I can make a proper decision.”

“Of course, sir,” replied Karpov. “Anything else?”

“Yes… See what we can do about his amnesia. I think, perhaps, we may be able to use it to our advantage.”

“What would you like to do? We would have to make him believe he is Russian.”

The Grand Duke nodded, putting a hand on Karpov’s shoulder. “Do anything you must do to make him loyal to the Tsar. I’ll decide what to do with him after, once I’ve seen him in action.”

“The man is dangerous,” replied Karpov, looking over his shoulder. “He could kill.”

“Good. Then let him kill for the Tsar.”

“Does your brother know of your plans?”

“No, but I am sure he would approve of his own safety. After all, he doesn’t intend to become anything like our father.”

Karpov nodded, escorting the Grand Duke out of the room and locking it behind them. Tsar Aleksandr II had been the target of multiple assassination attempts, and his son, Aleksandr III didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. But Russia was becoming a dangerous country for the monarchy, and he was willing to do anything to ensure his own safety. Karpov couldn’t blame him for wanting a sense of security, even if that meant violence. He simply hoped they could keep it all very quiet.

“We will bring him to the Red Room tonight,” he said. “And I will see if I can contact a scientist willing to help.”

“Thank you, Vasily Gavrilovich. I am grateful to have you in my service.”

“Happily,” he replied with a small bow. “ _Do svidanya_ , Sergei Aleksandrovich.” _Goodbye._

“ _Do svidanya._ ”


	2. Bright Stars

Natalia Alianovna stretched to ease her muscles after her routine. It was gruelling in some ways, enjoyable in others, but all in all she was satisfied with her work. As she stood, she spun in a pirouette, landing face to face with the men she was working with. They lay on the studio floor, most of their injuries miniscule and negligible, although one man suffered from a bleeding nose. She walked past them, stretching her arms above her head and smiling at the men at the door. Russian ballet required more discipline and strength than these men displayed. It was practically like combat. She paused, looking in the wall-length mirror, her leotard briefly catching her eye. She could’ve sworn it was something else for a moment. Still, she shrugged it off and headed to get changed.

Ivan Petrovich was waiting for her outside the studio, pacing by the time she arrived. A wide grin graced his face the moment she stepped outside the door. “Natasha! How did it go?”

“Well,” she replied with a smile. “Though, I don’t think the men I was paired with will fare well in ballet. They seemed clumsy, missing all their jumps and catches.”

“Or does my little girl just dance circles around them?” He put an arm around her, leading her to a carriage outside. “Although, you are not so little anymore.”

“I don’t think I’ve been a little girl for a long time, Papa.” Natasha stepped in, fixing her dress around her as she took a seat. “Am I joining you at work today?”

“I suppose you will be,” said Ivan, nodding. “This was your last practice at this studio, I should warn you. Tomorrow, you will be joining another group. I think you will find them… more to your level.”

She nodded, adjusting her coat and folding her hands on her lap. “Thank you, Papa,” she said, playing with the sleeves. “Do you think that perhaps I will one day make the Bolshoi? Perhaps travel the world with the dancers.” She smiled at the thought, imagining the stages and streets of Paris and the houses of Vienna. She just hoped that they wouldn’t be as boring as their current choreography.

“You can make the world stage,” replied Ivan. “I know you can. I think you will go on to do some great things.”

Her smile turned into a grin, her eyes lighting up. “You think?”

“If anyone were to become a great woman in the eyes of the Tsar, it will be you, _moya dorogaya_.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small package, leaning forward to place it gently on her lap. “Your medication, of course. And the key for your new room. We’ll be there in a little while, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Natasha opened the package, frowning at the small vial of liquid. She took this every day after practice, for reasons that her father never made clear. She didn’t quite know what it was, but it held back the headaches she got during the day, and she supposed that was good enough. Once, when she was little, she tried to go without it. But the headaches were too strong and wouldn’t subside until downing it again and hiding in the dark for several hours. She never was told much about her medical problems, and somehow this didn’t bother her. She was healthy taking her medication, and that was what mattered.

Still, she grimaced as she opened the vial, swallowing the bitter liquid and reaching into her pocket for something to mask the taste. What she found was a small caramel, still wrapped in its wax paper. She popped it in her mouth and sucked on it hard, then turned to the key in her lap. It was small, made out of heavy iron and rough around the edges. The key to her new room, he told her. She wondered what her new room looked like.

\--

Karpov was pacing again. The task he was given was simple, and yet he wasn’t sure how to go about it. He still needed guidance from a professional. Yes, that was what he awaited – the arrival of the doctor.

“Vasily Gavrilovich, for God’s sake, stop that blasted pacing,” muttered Aleksandr. “You’re going to walk a path in the floor where you stand.”  
Karpov stopped mid-stride, sighing deeply and shaking his head. “I apologize,” he said. “But this… this is not going to be an easy task.”

“Do you have faith in the project?”

“I do.” He lied. He wasn’t sure how he was going to go about what the Grand Duke ordered him. Somehow, he had to make this American loyal enough to kill for the Tsar. He clenched his teeth. “Absolute faith,” he said.

“Then calm yourself,” continued Aleksandr. “Sit, relax, have a drink. He won’t be going anywhere with that injury of his.”

“It’s the cold,” said Karpov. “I think it’s getting to me.” He rubbed his eyes, still sore from the late nights in the Urals. He hoped it wouldn’t be a problem for much longer.

“The facility’s quite nice, don’t you think?” Aleksandr’s voice came from farther away, and when Karpov looked, he was halfway down the hall. “The rooms here aren’t very big, but they are better than most in the city. We have a fire to keep us warm, and the kitchens are fully stocked! I know that Sergei Aleksandrovich has had difficulties recruiting for this program, but I imagine that one look at the facilities and we could have half of Moscow willing to join us!”

“Don’t be stupid, Aleksandr.” Karpov grimaced, watching the boy’s naiveté. “There are only a rare few Russians willing to serve the Tsar as we do. All the luxuries in the world couldn’t make a man kill for his emperor if they weren’t willing to begin with, let alone die.”

Aleksandr nodded, his face grim. “Are you willing to die for the Tsar?”

The words rung down the hall; the echo still loud enough to be heard despite the hum of the machinery further inside. Karpov hesitated to answer for a few moments before nodding. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? I work here after all; I would have to be willing to sacrifice my life.”

“Just come, Vasily Gavrilovich,” said Aleksandr. “Have a drink. You can lie to the Grand Duke, but there’s little need to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” replied Karpov. “I would lay down my life for the Tsar.”

“That makes us two very different people, then.” Aleksandr lit a pipe, halfway through a drag as a man opened the front door and walked through the main hall. He stopped when he saw the two men and smiled at them both.

“Vasily Karpov and Aleksandr Lukin, yes?” he asked, holding his briefcase in front of him. “My name is Doctor Faustus, I’m very glad to finally meet you.” His grin was wide as he spoke, his massive beard almost as large as his belly. He wore small, circular spectacles and a confident face that somehow put Karpov out of ease. He didn’t expect Faustus to look like this when he first contacted him. “Is the patient ready?”

The two men looked at each other, hesitating. It was Aleksandr who nodded in reply, walking the doctor to the holding room. He twirled the key in his hand before opening the lock and sliding the door open. The American sat inside, his ankles chained to the bed and his wrists cuffed together. He watched the three men as they entered, his eyes falling to the doctor’s briefcase. The man grew increasingly unruly as the days went by, his hair and face a mess. The blood was gone, at least.

Dr. Faustus knelt beside him to examine his arm. He unwrapped the bandages revealing the deep gash in the American’s flesh. Karpov had seen it when it was fresh, but the gaping hole and exposed muscle and bone was never a pleasant sight. Slowly, it was healing.

The doctor opened his briefcase, taking out two vials. “That looks painful,” he said with a small chuckle. “I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s good that you are recovering as well as you are. But still painful nonetheless.” He handed the American an unopened vial of clear liquid. “Diluted heroin; should help with the pain.” The American nodded, turning it in his fingers before downing it entirely. Then, Faustus continued. He took out a syringe, filling it with the contents of the second vial.

Karpov frowned where he stood. He knew the doctor was informed in what they wanted to do, but the man started his work without a single word to them. He was starting to question his choice in doctors.

A few moments later, the American collapsed onto the bed, unconscious. His body made a small _thud_ as it hit the hard bed, and Faustus grinned. “Wonderful! Now we can discuss things properly.” He took the American’s arm, finding a vein and injecting the contents of his syringe. Karpov simply gritted his teeth – he said he would talk, so talk.

“Discuss what, Doctor?” he asked.

“The procedure,” replied Faustus. “I suppose you’re wondering what we may be doing with this man, judging by your distrustful demeanor, Vasily. Would you like me to explain here or on the way to the Electric Room? It _is_ ready, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Karpov, sighing. The Electric Room was one of the last ones built, and he remembered the large amount of effort the wiring took to complete it. The Grand Duke was eager to test new ways of control, but Karpov believed there were better. “I’ll call a nurse.”

“Excellent!” the doctor exclaimed. “Do not look so doubtful, Vasily. My electrotherapy has worked many times before and it will continue to work again. Herr Bismarck has far fewer enemies today than he did ten years ago.”

“We don’t want him hurt too much,” said Aleksandr. “Sergei Aleksandrovich wishes he be strong enough to carry out whatever orders we give him.”

“And it will happen,” replied Faustus. “He will experience no deterioration in physical health, rest assured. Now please, a nurse. And possibly something to cart this man in?”

\--

Drowsiness and cold were the first things he felt. His head felt cold, though he wasn’t sure why. Some feeling came back to his arms and his wrists, hands clenched together in fists at his sides. There was nothing he could do, however. They wouldn’t move, and the slight discomfort at his wrists and ankles meant he was strapped down. Somewhere. Somehow.

And then the painlessness came back. Something was shoved into his mouth, forcing his tongue down. He couldn’t pinpoint the taste; nothing was coming back to him. He lost feeling in his limbs once again.

As his consciousness faded again, he heard metal touch metal at his temples, and the sound of something starting up. He wasn’t sure whether the drugs knocked him out, or if the pain that coursed through his head did. His screams were barely recognizable to him. His last sight was the black ceiling up ahead, sparks dancing in his eyes.


	3. Candlelight

Natalia sat herself down on her new bed. It was hard and cold, and slightly unforgiving she found. Even pushing down on it didn’t much dent the mattress. Her room wasn’t much better – grey as the sky above and wind cut through the stone. She ran a hand across the wall next to her bed, trailing towards her suitcase sitting next to her. She let her arm drop, feeling the leather of the body and the metal of the clasps before sliding her fingers under each notch and opening it up. Her belongings stared back at her for a few moments before she decided to unpack. It wasn’t anything special, but she would live.

The sound of footsteps stopped her, made her tense up, listening to whoever was outside. She held her breath to better hear the heavy boots as they hit the concrete, noticing two sets of feet, out of sync with each other, one hurriedly catching up with the other. There were voices that were too faint to hear at this point, let alone decipher. Instead, she closed her eyes, shrugging it off, and continued to unpack. But her actions were more deliberate now, her ears straining to listen to the conversation that was being held outside. The talking stopped, voices muffled by the steel door. Natalia frowned, disappointed. She hated not knowing.

A knock, before the door opened without her reply. Her adoptive father walked in, next to another man, much taller, wider. He wore a suit as dark as his hair, cut neatly around his shoulders and waist, standing with as much authority as the guards she had seen outside of the palace. Still, she didn’t recognize him, but there was a glint in his glazed eyes that made her sit straight, putting her hands in her lap, playing with the ring on her middle finger. The two men exchanged glances before Ivan introduced her.

“Natasha,” he started, gingerly pushing aside her clothes and taking a seat on her bed. “I would like you to meet Vasily Gavrilovich Karpov. He’ll be overseeing the rest of your training here.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Vasily Gavrilovich,” she said with a nod. “And what of the other girls?” Her mind wandered back to the others from her group – twenty seven other ballerinas, training to reach the Bolshoi.

“They are here as well, yes,” replied Karpov. The man smiled slightly as he spoke, his words rushed, each syllable tumbling over one another. “Our facilities here are better suited for your training. Much larger studios, and a very large theatre to perform in. They are the best the empire could provide for Russia’s best dancers.”

“Your training will resume tomorrow morning,” said her father, pushing her red hair behind her shoulders. “Until then, we’ve arranged for a grand feast in the dining hall. The others will be there to join you.” He rose to his feet, holding out a hand for her to take. “Come! You can unpack later. There are celebrations to be had.”

Natalia frowned. “Celebrations for what?”

“Christmas!” exclaimed Ivan as she took his hand. Her heart sunk she he said this – she had completely forgotten about Christmas.

“I didn’t get you anythi—“

“Don’t worry, Natasha… Seeing your progress is gift enough.” He walked her out of her room, kissing her forehead. “Vasily Gavrilovich, you will be joining us, will you not?” he called behind him.

“In time, Ivan Petrovich,” the man replied. “I need to inform the others that Natasha has settled in, as well.” There was a hint of something in his voice that she couldn’t quite place. They were far along the hallway before she heard anything from him again. The men her father brought to see her were always strange in some ways. However, she settled that Alexei Shostakov was the worst of them all – he seemed to have no interest in anything other than himself. She hadn’t heard from him in a while, she realized. _I wonder what happened._

The sound of the dining hall could be heard across the wing. It was a mix of the clanging of metal and the murmurs of speech, a cacophony of winter celebrations amongst the cool stone of the hallway and the dimming light of the sun. Natalia smiled as she walked in, seeing the other girls sitting around a long, wooden table, plates and candles set in front of them. They talked amongst themselves, their masters scattered amongst them. She could hardly believe she had forgotten about Christmas. The days must have flown by, she mused as she took a seat. How could she have forgotten?

\--

There were talks of plans over tea and candlelight. The celebrations, Vasily decided, were going to wait. There were more important matters at hand.

The Grand Duke sat across from Vasily and Aleksandr, dressed in a plain suit, his arms crossed over his chest. On the table was a file, laid open as everyone had finished reading, and several newspapers neatly piled to the side. Sergei Aleksandrovich frowned through his great mustache as he slowly placed each journal so the other two men could see. It was Vasily who was talking.

“If Ivan thinks she is ready, then we should proceed with the next stage,” he was saying, eyeing the headlines as the Grand Duke laid them out. “We know she is a capable fighter, so we should put her to the test.” Four journals were placed in front of him, each saying roughly the same thing, calling for the unification of scholars and the educated in search of a better country. He glanced at Aleksandr, who was busy with one of the journals.

“What is this, Sergei Aleksandrovich?” asked Lukin, pushing the papers aside. “Why have you brought these here?”

“My men found them,” said the Grand Duke. “Apparently, I am not very popular with the city’s _intelligentsia_.” He leaned forward and grabbed one from the middle, leafing through it. “The ideas in these pages are dangerous. Not just for me, but for the monarchy. The scholars have been writing about wanting social and economic change, and I fear these publications may entice a revolutionary movement.” He waited for a response, but the two men were quiet. Sergei continued on. “If you think Natalia Alianovna is ready, then this shall be her first task. I want this threat eliminated.”

“Sergei Aleksandrovich, with all due respect,” Lukin started, “I do not think she is prepared for such… an assassination. She is young after all, and perhaps we should wait for the Soldier to—“ Vasily interrupted him.

“We will to it,” he said with a nod. “Her training is almost complete after all. Perhaps this will be her final test.”

The Grand Duke nodded, finishing his tea and pushing the cup to the side. “I trust you will have this dealt with, then. There are other matters that require my full attention, so I pray you two can handle this small affair yourselves. I would like to see these publications shut down, in any way you deem necessary.”

The air from the hallway rushed in as the door opened, the lights from the candle blown out as the Grand Duke left their office. The two men sat in the dark for a few moments before Aleksandr reached out to re-light it, only to be stopped by Vasily, shaking his head. “We should go now,” he said. “I don’t doubt they are waiting for us in the dining hall.”

\--

Dr. Faustus hadn’t been invited to any Christmas celebrations and he didn’t mind, necessarily. He wasn’t being paid to drink and dance with the pretty ballerinas…. As much as he would’ve liked it. Instead, he sat in a ceramic-tiled room, white as teeth and glistening with water, as the nurses tied down the American once more. He was still unconscious, eyes rolled back in his head, and a crude piece of rubber stuck between his upper palate and tongue. Wires were placed at his temples once more, though the incisions were imperfect. Blood was dripping down his face, some already dried around the implants. The doctor merely frowned, shaking his head, before stopping the nurses to clean him up. They wanted the man alive, after all.

The wound on the American’s arm was healing nicely, but the damage was deep, and the scar was going to be large. The hopes were that it wouldn’t interfere too much. His employers wanted a man in excellent physical condition, and they were lucky he already was in very good shape. Some further conditioning may need to be done, but weren’t they doing that already? Faustus cleaned the wound himself before opening his notebook, watching the nurses apply the metal clamps once more. “Up the dosage to two Amps, please, fräulein,” he said, searching through the notes he had taken from before. “We’re going to see if we can remove any of the resistance we saw last time.”

The nurse nodded, running over to the machine. Lights flickered as it was turned on, as if a storm had taken hold of Moscow. The American’s body convulsed in his restraints, as muffle screams attempted to escape. The second nurse bent down to light a few candles around the room.

When the shock subsided, Dr. Faustus began.


End file.
